


Tandem

by lizthefangirl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bellamy PoV, Bellarke, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergent, F/M, Josephine Lightbourne Possessing Clarke Griffin, Minor Violence, Spec, Speculation, The 100 (TV) Season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19377670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizthefangirl/pseuds/lizthefangirl
Summary: 6.09 speculation. Bellamy grapples with Josephine in the woods, as she uses what she's learned of Clarke's mind against him.





	1. Chapter 1

Every so often, as the trees sang around them, she'd let out a laugh—little more than a labored breath.

He'd yank the tether between them, hard, until her amusement turned into a sputtered curse. 

Between her cryptic tittering, Josephine was far from silent. Even when exhaustion started to trace her tone, she seemed determined to spout poisonous words. "About little Madi. . . Cold-blooded murder runs in both your families, huh?"

Bellamy kept up his brisk but careful pace, desperate to get as far from Inner Sanctum as possible before nightfall.

He didn't look at her unless he had to. Occasionally, there'd be a massive downed tree or a ring of boulders, and he'd grip her sleeves and heave her over. Not so much because he minded her flopping about on her stomach like some sort of Clarke-shaped reptile; merely for time's sake.

He had also begrudgingly acknowledged that he had no idea what could (and would) kill him out here. Based on Echo's account of the dying man she'd found (she hadn't said she'd ended it, though he was certain she had—and told himself he was okay with that), as well as the lethal swarm their first night here. . . 

Every few minutes, he'd grind them to a halt and grunt, "Anything?"

She knew the forest's threats intimately; he'd figured it out in her initial intervals of silence, noting disconcerted glances towards what appeared perfectly mundane: A spindley, snow-white fungus. A swampy patch of forest floor. "Whatever it is," he'd told her, lightly snapping his makeshift leash, "I'll make sure it gets both of us."

And she'd evidently believed him, because when prompted, she'd either simper at him in exasperation or mutter a different direction. These moments were a relief from her other commentary. 

The twin suns were low, a dusky cast over what he had to admit was quite a gorgeous landscape. He was surprised by how his heart strained at the memories of Earth's lush forests. 

"You have a thing for handcuffs?" 

His nostrils flared. It wasn't the first pointed comment she'd made—one explicitly from Clarke's mind. The first came minutes into the brush: "It's super weird how that hot Roan guy did this  _exact_ same draggy-thing to Clarke before you rescued her—when she had the hideous red hair, remember? And now look at you go!"

She proceeded to pluck out whichever she figured would rile him, waving them in front of him like a luscious, potentially deadly fruit. She seemed to be enjoying this process very much. 

"That tore her heart to pretty pieces, you know. She was so ready for you to be best buddies again." Her voice went even more high and girlish, and he was sure she'd wave a flippant hand were she able as she chattered, "Y'know, to have you and her girlfriend be in-laws or some kind of threeway thing or whatever—"

He didn't falter. Even if it was still Clarke's voice, its tone was different enough that he could separate her from it. It was the face that gave him problems. Granted, he was hardly immune to the words. 

Josephine snorted at his lack of response. "I bet that ate you  _up_ ," she crooned. "I mean what, this Bush Baby was trying to kill and eat your people—oops, no, that was your sister—and Clarke's getting busy with her?  _That_ is quite a memory, by the way, I have to tell you. No worries, big guy, it was only a one-time thing, given that—"

Bellamy pivoted, swinging the chain and pulling it taut in one motion—the sudden slack sending her face-first into the dirt with a cry. "We're stopping here."

 

* * *

  

She had beamed at him while he carefully wound the chain around a hefty limb, crafting a knot Echo had taught him on the Ark. It'd have served him well on the Ground.

He didn't particularly care for the huskiness of her voice when she breathed, "I'm sure you've had this dream before." Before turning away, he caught her face twist in pain, feline smile soon returning. "Don't like that, do we?"

Bellamy settled against a tree, arms folding. "How long?"

She didn't toy with him on this. "Guess it'd be closer to forty-eight hours now." 

He'd suspected as much if they'd been trying to operate, and didn't mask his desperation. "What happens if I cut it out of your neck?"

She raised her brows. It made her look too much like Clarke. " _Beeeeep._ Flatline."

"For both of you?"

"Obviously."

The evening air hung heavy with heat. A good thing, for a he wouldn't risk a fire. "Is she in any pain?"

"She almost let me kill her, so in a manner of speaking, yeah," Josephine said casually, ignoring his gawking. She yawned hugely. "FYI, it's best that you don't let me go to sleep. It'll kill her way faster. In fact, bringing me out here? It accomplished approximately nothing. You're wasting time she doesn't have."

"She's gonna live," he said. "I know that. You should, too."

"Right. 'Course," she muttered, craning her head back. "Haven't been out here in awhile. It is  _so_ good to have a body. You can't begin to imagine."

"I'm good with the one I've got, actually," he replied coolly.

"Tell me something," Josephine said, cocking her head. "What lengths would you go to to make sure this body doesn't die?"

" _Clarke_ ," he snarled, low, "is not a just a body. And I'd do anything. Except murder innocent people, at all costs."

She hummed. "What if it was Echo?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

She shrugged deeply. "Just saying. Would you do all of this for her?"

"Of course I would," he intoned. "I love her."

Josephine blinked, wore an expression he would've thought was cute on Clarke. And then guffawed outright, so hard that she almost doubled over. The keening noise cracked off slumbering trees. 

He could have hit her. Struck her clean across her jaw. If it was anyone else—if it wasn't  _her_ —

She gasped to catch her breath, eyes actually watering. She rubbed them on a shoulder. "Oh man. That's good, really. That's so great."

"What the hell do you know about love? 

"I'm over two centuries old, Bellamy. I know quite a bit. And what you just said—really, I wish you could just  _peek_ up here, one little glimpse—"

"Does being knocked out count as sleeping?"

"It does indeed." She grinned toothily. "But humor me, please. I think you need to talk this out with someone before Clarke like, _die_ -dies. You're telling me that  _all_ of this lovey junk up here, the ten thousand times you said 'Together,' all doe-eyed; the forgiveness mess, the—I'm sorry, you  _stood over a new world_ with her, and you've never even told her how you feel?"

"You're not in my head, Josephine," he panned, annoyed. "You don't know—"

"She loved you for six years and probably before that, you cosmic moron. And you find out she's alive and throw it away for some space fling instead of taking what should have been yours a long time ago. It's tragic."

He wasn't sure when he'd approached her. Wasn't sure of anything except that his blood was boiling, his head splitting. "You're immortal, yet you act like a child," he seethed. "You shouldn't be alive, Josephine. You don't deserve to be alive."

"Playing God is fun, isn't it?" she hissed, as if telling an inside joke to a close friend. "Being one is nice too."

"She can hear me, can't she?"

She crooked a brow. "See, yes. Hear, only if I want her to."

Made sense, he thought. Before she could register the action, his fingers were wrapped around her wrist. They were restless, fidgety. "She can feel?"

For the first time, genuine curiosity crossed her face—though he was revolted by what she likely figured he was about to do. He read it in hooded eyes, flushed cheeks. 

She wasn't entirely wrong; he had dreamt about that much. They felt like the dreams of a boy, now. He'd thought he had time sprawled ahead of him. 

Instead of leaning in and answering what still called to him in darkness, years later, he pressed his fingers into her wrist—let his nails dig in.

She winced in shock, began rambling furiously—and he let her. Didn't move his eyes from her face as he squeezed and released, squeezed and released, measuring in his mind. 

When he let go, she was gaping at the angry pink crescents on her skin, like a scuffed piece of furniture.

Later, he'd find that his fingernails were rimmed in black.

Mercifully, she only studied him with irritation and bafflement. "That get you off or something?"

"You led us here for a reason, no?"

Oh, she was pissed all right. He relished in it. 

"How much longer? Or are they already here?"

Finally, he saw it: Fear, live fear touched her gaze. Her words came through gritted teeth. "They can't save her, idiot."

"Maybe not." 

"They'll  _slaughter_ me," she spat. "They'll take my  _head_ —her head!"

"I won't let you die," he said quietly. Reverently. "Because you're wrong. Cold-blooded murder doesn't run in my family, or hers."

She huffed a laugh, though it was laced with panic. "So the psychotic child running around—"

"I'm gonna get her back, too," he said. Swore it aloud, as he already had inside, since the moment she went missing from the table. "But since we're here. . ."

He backed up slowly. Raised his arms. Felt the scalpel in his sleeve, warmed by his flesh. And when he spoke, volume rising, it was to the faces beyond the trees. "I have a proposition."

 

* * *

 

Clarke lingered in that horrible room (a "diner," according to a battered, laminated menu) for. . . however long. She had watched it all in mute terror, on a screen above the bar: Her eyes, Josephine's eyes, broadcasted back into her own head. The television—she assumed that's what it was—wasn't very good quality. But she watched all of it, without a hint of noise—Emori's betrayal, John's injury. And Madi. . . She'd seen the name mouthed, and the accompanying expression pricked tears. That child would kill them all. The Flame would make her.

Clarke knew her body was dying. She felt it, somewhere deep, intrinsic. Somewhere unfixable.

But then there was the back of Bellamy's head—clever and stupid, to drag Josephine across the shield. Not that he had a choice. 

Except that he did, she reminded herself. Apparently, though, he was doing precisely what she would have for him: Damning it all to save her life. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to tackle him in an embrace or barrage him with punches.

Every so often, the entire space would convulse—silverware and plates shuddering and clinking, as well as the colorful baubles all over the place, the draped metallic bristles swishing. The very daylight outside the windows would briefly sink into night. It had taken a while before Monty (aka Clarke) had connected it to Josephine's (Clarke's) nervous system. 

"Pain, most likely," he'd said, pointing out how the tremors were in tandem with Bellamy's tugs on her restraints. 

She had little to hold to here besides dread. At least he knew she was alive; she tried to convince herself that was a good thing. 

And then Josephine's voice had echoed, as if through speakers grainy as the television's picture:  _I'm sure you've had this dream before._

A muscle in Bellamy's jaw feathered in the dim shadows.

Clarke's gut roiled at the implication. At what she was trying to do to him. She threw a glass against a wall, hard as she could, taking out a clock permanently frozen at 3:18 pm. 

She waited for more nonsense, but was met with the same hollow silence.

Suddenly, he was close. So close. The air grew thin around her—

Then the room began to quake and lights began to flash, Josephine's view wild, glancing at Bellamy's fingers, then his face—unreadable, but a crease between his brows. . .

 _Wait_. 

"Monty," she choked. " _Monty!_ "

He scrambled in from the other room, hand pressed to a table as it rumbled—then stilled for a beat. Then shook again. His eyes widened. 

She was already across the bar, snatching up a waiter's pen and pad, squinting in the halting light. "Come on, come _on_."

Thankfully, he was repeating it. Her heart was hammering as she squeezed her eyes closed, listened and  _felt_. "That's a  _D_. . . And an  _L?_ Or, no. Okay, it's—it's. . ."

The pen clattered onto the table.

She was gasping, a hand flying over her mouth as she wept. Monty didn't speak, because Monty wasn't there—as if her brain had peered into the diner and deemed the moment too private.

Only she wasn't alone. She was the furthest thing from it as she held the pad to her brow and sobbed openly, like it was his face against her own. 

All around her, the room rattled it off one last time.

 

.-..  / **L**

\--- / **O**

...-  / **V**

.      / **E**

-..   / **D.**

 


	2. Traces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6.09 speculation. Clarke finally has to face Bellamy in her subconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all asked for one more chapter. . . and I had one more scenario in mind. . . And whoops, it's my favorite thing I've ever written.

The diner’s television—her only lens to the outside—had disappeared.

Just up and vanished, likely while she was in pieces over Bellamy's message. Any semblance of relief turned to horror when she blinked up blearily at the screen, and found it was simply  _gone._ More troubling was that the shape of it remained, a crisp rectangle of polished wood amidst dust.

"Either she figured out the Morse code and is punishing you for it," Monty supposed, having re-appeared in a booth, an untouched slice of pie in front of him, "or your collective mindspace will collapse at any moment."

"Love that," Clarke said, scrubbing at her face. She gnawed on her lip and ripped the page from the pad, tucking it in her breast pocket. "So what now?"

Monty was studying his pie—cherry, according to the menus she'd practically memorized—with a frown. "I think. . . You need to find him."

She quirked a brow, chest tightening. "Up here?"

"Yes."

She shook her head, massaging her knuckles. Her voice came softer than she'd have liked it. "I've looked. I've opened every door, I even went to— _that_  part." She stifled a shiver at the thought of the moonlit clearing in the forest, filled with artifacts of her deepest shame, betrayal, crippling grief. 

"But he wasn't there."

"No." She almost snapped the word. 

Monty's expression was gentle. "We chose you two to wake up first for a reason, Clarke. You're strong on your own, but. . . when he's by your side?"

"I can't." A stubborn, irrevocable statement.

"I think you can," he considered, eyes crinkling. "But you have to _believe_ that for it to happen. As long as you shut him out like this, you won't find him anywhere.” His face softened. “I know you're afraid."

Almost unreasonably so, in fact.

"Monty, I just have this feeling. Like it might actually kill me if—" She sighed sharply. It sounded insane, felt like yet another betrayal—particularly of her father, Madi. That her survival might rest on this one relationship, that if anyone could break her, tear into places few people had ever so much as grazed, let alone occupied within her. . .

"If it's the truth, there's no point running from it," he said. "Think of it like that: Chasing honesty. Absolute honesty."

She ran her hands through her hair with a groan. "It's not even  _him_ I'd be speaking to, it's me— _you're_ me! This is all just—"

"Yeah, speaking of which, why did you give a formless manifestation of your subconscious a piece of pie? As if I have a stomach?" Monty grinned pointedly. "Better not to overthink it."

"Fine," she muttered, pushing off the table. "I don't know where to start."

"Isn’t that obvi—?" He raised his hands at her expression, sheepish. "I just meant. . . Maybe try the beginning, somewhere near there?"

Her brows furrowed. It sounded exactly right, though she was unsure how she would get there. Still, she nodded, eying the exit with gusty sigh. "Wish me—" 

The words died in her throat when she glimpsed him smiling smugly, his impossible cheeks comically full, chewing a bite of his impossible pie.

 

* * *

  

She’d fully expected to re-enter Josephine’s library when she opened the door.

Instead, she entered a familiar room, a makeshift cell in Camp Jaha. She was back in her Grounder clothes, and in the second it took her to scan the space, cool metal bit into her wrist.

She twisted around, gut roiling with dread.

His back was to her on the far side of the room, head lowered, hands on his hips. “How could you do it?” His voice was gravelly, tone frighteningly even.

She couldn’t grasp any words. Couldn’t move.

He turned, dark circles beneath scornful eyes, face thinner and clean-shaven. “Did you actually believe it was enough,” he sneered, “to tell me you trusted me? That you _needed_ me?” He was closer now, trembling so severely he that he seemed to almost flicker at the edges. “You _left_ me.”

Those words. The verbal blow that this memory was built around.

“I did leave,” she choked, “I did. I was scared of facing our people, and I ran.”

He snorted. “Right into our enemy’s bed, huh? What, did you want to become some Grounder queen? Rule by her side? Was that your dream?”

“I loved her,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know that when I left. I won’t apologize for loving someone. It didn’t mean I didn’t love you too, Bellamy. You’re my best friend and I—”

“ _Too_ _late_ ,” he barked, actually making her flinch. “You’re always too damned late.”

“Please don’t do this to me.” She shook her head as he stalked to the door, desperately tugging on the chain as she had that day. “ _Bellamy_. Don’t do this!”

The door slammed, and she wailed after him, sinking to the ground. She wasn't certain how long she remained that way, weeping against her sleeve.

Then her restrained arm dropped, abruptly freed. There was less light here, and she squinted around her, above her—

She was perched on a ladder. A few rungs up, the immense door to the bunker.  

“Don’t do it,” he warned.

She sucked in a breath, already piecing it together. “You know I have to, Bellamy.”

“Clarke.” The gun cocked. “I can’t let you. You’ll die.”

She almost smiled at the irony, peering at him at last. “This isn’t the bunker,” she said warily. “The world isn’t burning behind that door.”

“I know that, but I can’t let you go.”

“You know that,” she breathed, “so you know that I _have_ to get out of here. I have to live.”

“Stay with me,” he strained, face dripping. His hands shook. “Please, Clarke. Stay with me here. You’ll be safe. We’ll be together.”

“You’re wrong,” she told him gently. “We aren’t safe anywhere. But we will be together again.”

“He’s right, Clarke.” Her lungs were abruptly drained as Madi appeared in the doorway. Her expression was entirely open, and she realized with a start that she didn’t have the Flame. “We’re your family, this is your home.”

“It’s not real,” she heaved.

“But it feels real, doesn’t it?” The copy of her child approached her, extended a hand. “It’s real enough. It’s better here.”

She swallowed a sob. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll see you soon.”

“You won’t,” Bellamy cried. “You know you won’t make it out there.”

Before he was finished talking, she had gritted her teeth and gone for it, springing off the step and stretching as far as she could for the latch—

A gunshot didn’t go off, but the scalding heat still ripped through her torso.

There was only profound ringing in her ears, her grip slackening as she slumped down the rungs, landed hard on hands and knees. She gaped up at them as wet warmth spread too quickly down her abdomen, and collapsed onto her side.

Madi’s face was blank but resolute. Bellamy’s was much the same as he crouched down over her, gun clattering to the ground. “This is the only choice,” he sighed.

Clarke was on her back, the pain white-hot now, her breathing gone shallow and watery as her eyes fluttered shut.

 

* * *

 

She gasped as icy air pricked her skin, struggling to focus in the tight, dim little space. Mechanical whirring and hissing made her wince, startled, and the frosted lid rose. She blinked around and sat up, clutching frantically at herself and finding she was no longer wounded.

Hopping down from the platform, she sought Madi’s sleeping face below. Her pod was empty—yet still in cryo mode, as if its system didn’t know it was uninhabited. She spun, finding the same true of the sprawling rows—apart from one unit. It was ejected like her own, just as empty.

She padded down the corridor to the bridge, perplexed. This was a bittersweet memory in terms of Monty and Harper’s loss, but absolutely reverent otherwise. She’d hardly felt as full as when she stood with Bellamy above their glorious second chance at humanity.

But when she turned the corner, she found that the bridge’s massive windows were shuttered once more. And instead of the plain metallic walls, the room was a confounding patchwork of screens. All around her they blared, some larger than others, mutely teeming with images.

Of them, she soon realized. Every last one was of the two of them—or rather, of him, through her ostensibly greedy eyes.

She slowly surveyed them, shocked to find even the most mundane, often unfamiliar moments playing on a loop: Bellamy from a distance, boyish and self-important, swiping a hand across his brow as he overlooked the original Hundred at the Dropship. Bellamy carefully helping her navigate the steps down Polis’s tower after she made it out of the City of Light. Bellamy’s nose wrinkled in annoyance as he tried to pull on his hazmat suit for the first time.

She paused in front of one screen, no larger than her hand, fascinated: He was very young. Maybe fourteen or fifteen—but unmistakably himself, freckled and narrow-browed. Clarke’s vision was edged by other children, likely her class, parading together on the Ring. But Bellamy was striding swift and solitary, a look of intense concentration on his face. The loop was no more than a couple seconds long, a flash of her attention.

Clarke was mortified by it all. Stunned. Her heart wrenched as she took in the larger screens: Bellamy determinedly taking the pen from her hand to add her name to the list of the living. She only saw the flash of his throat and shoulder in a few, wrapped around him in an embrace. Then his alarmed look as she told him to hurry, the final time she’d see him for six years.

“Observant, aren’t we?”

She closed her eyes in relief. He didn’t sound remotely cross.

“Maybe a little obsessive.” When she looked to her right, she found his eyes illuminated by one of images. He cracked a grin at it, but sounded rather forlorn as he said, “We need to talk, Clarke.”

She knew. This was the conversation she’d been hiding from, the one buried so effectively that she had simply refused to ponder its existence at all. “I’m ready.”

He studied her, arms crossed, and she was almost angry for a moment; for his gaze was every bit as complex as in reality. It seemed wrong that it could be mimicked, even by her.

The unspeakable statement was presented plainly: “You called me every day for six years, and then you left me to die in the fighting pits.”

She exhaled through her nose, mouth already gone dry. “I. . . really thought you’d forgiven me for that. Or I’d hoped. . .”

“Lemme guess,” he mused, approaching. His eyes still flickered over her memories—almost hungrily. “As suggested by a certain sister of mine?”

Faintly, it struck her that she was, perhaps, looking at the very essence of who he was. Of the man she thought him to be. “How could you forgive me for that,” she murmured uselessly, knowing his answer.

“I think we’ve both forgiven some pretty nasty things in one another, don’t you?”

Yep. That was The Most Bellamy Answer. _Throw it on a plaque_ , she thought.

Instead of bringing resolve, it vexed her. “You should hate me for it. You’ve never left me to die, you were _saving me_ , and I did that to you.”

“For Madi,” he finished steadily. “I put your child in danger, I betrayed you, and you were disappointed and pissed. But you said yourself, that you weren’t seeing clearly—”

“ _I was_ ,” Clarke said. “I knew exactly what it meant. I—” She choked on a gasp, and the damning words were hardly audible to her own ears. “I didn’t care if you died.”

Bellamy didn’t look the least bit perturbed. He leaned against a control panel. “You know, when you were in Lexa’s throne room, dressed like Trikru royalty—when I asked you to come back with me. . . Clarke, I can name those kind of moments. So can you, clearly.” He waved at the walls. “At worst? They’re moments of hate. Nothing else to it.”

She blinked back against the pressure behind her eyes, and the room changed.

Those moments. Spiteful. Hateful, at times, like he’d said. They were projected vastly—so few of them, but each bore eternal weight: When she hit him in the bunker. When he stood, unflinching, his back turned to her as the last of Earth scrambled to board the very ship they were on now. When he woke up in the office to find she’d rendered him unconscious, selfish and desperate to keep him alive.

Her lip quivered, fingers curling and uncurling. “My fault,” she said. “All of this. . . You deserve better.”

“None of us do, actually,” he reasoned. “We’re all broken, Clarke. We’re people.”

“But you—you’re _my_ person,” she rasped. God, it sounded childish. But it was no less true. He, like Madi, was apart from the rest of the universe, the rest of the people in it.

“Tell that to him,” he rumbled with a grin, nodding at one of the shirtless images of himself from their first days on the Ground (the screen displaying it not particularly small). He came to stand beside her, screens popping in and out of existence, all turning to silent static as he passed.

When he stopped a couple feet away, the shutters on the window began to slide upwards. “Come and see,” he said.

She followed him, curious. And saw the two of them on the beach, life-sized and real beneath the moon. An imagined wider angle. She remembered the conversation well, watched herself mouth the words: _You know, you’re not the only one trying to forgive yourself. Maybe we’ll get that someday._

Her voice filled that of her memory’s moments later. “‘The only way we’re going to pull this off is together,’” she whispered.

“We need each other,” he agreed.

The memory on the beach faded, and their reflections were made clearer by the perpetual sea of stars outside. Familiar reflections—the two of them dressed just as they had been as they overlooked Sanctum.

“You should try to forgive yourself, Clarke,” he said to them, stated simply as anything. “We’re not innocent. But if we’re going to live, don’t we owe it to ourselves to try and find forgiveness?”

She met his eyes, wishing he were truly there. Because no, _real enough_ was not enough at all. He seemed to read this on her face, and said something rather strange. “You know he’ll fight for you.”

Her eyes widened a bit. Nice to know her subconscious was self-aware. Not creepy at all. He cleared his throat with a grin, nodded at the wide window.  

This view of the outside had no interference, clear as it would be from her own eyes. Bellamy was stood in some sort of cavern—chains and torches on the walls. His expression was almost the twin of the one he’d wore as a boy in her memory. He was calculating. Awaiting.

“I’ll fight to get back to him first,” she said, mouth lifting at the corners.

She wanted him, however that was. As he was now: Her dearest friend, her family—she wanted to love him, to laugh with him. She wanted to fight with him. Forgive him, that they might laugh some more. Struggle with him. Learn with him. Grow with him.

A life with him. . . There had been another life she’d accepted before, with only Madi. But she knew in her very soul, at the very center of her mind, that as there was no Madi without Clarke, there was no Clarke without Bellamy.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my third fic in like 72 hours. . . You guys have been so wonderful. 
> 
> The idea behind this one: In the first trailer for this season, we hear Bellamy say, “You called me every day for six years, and then you left me to die in the fighting pits.” It's edited to be followed by Clarke's apology from the "You're my family, too," scene. . . Which means either a) They cut that line from a previous convo, or b) We haven't heard it yet. And I have a feeling it'll be in Clarke's head. That concept was kind of the basis of writing this.

**Author's Note:**

> They really gave us another hiatus, huh? Cruel, really. 
> 
> So in the trailer, it looks like they're probably captured by the Children of Gabriel. It's also wonderfully ambiguous if it's Josephine that Bellamy's addressing. So I threw things around a bit, and got this. I hope everyone enjoys it, and I'll likely have some more speculation before the break is through. I really appreciate comments. Thanks guys.


End file.
